


aiai-gasa

by damnneovelvet



Series: to write or not to write [7]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ficlet, Friendship, M/M, Nakamoto Yuta-centric, Rain, Umbrellas, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnneovelvet/pseuds/damnneovelvet
Summary: Life really can be rose-coloured.The only prerequisite is: Lee Taeyong.
Relationships: Lee Taeyong/Nakamoto Yuta
Series: to write or not to write [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913998
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	aiai-gasa

**Author's Note:**

> This is originally on twitter (hence, the format and sentence construction) but I decided to archive it because the word count is okay! No trigger warnings I can think of, so if you think I should tag anything, let me know.
> 
> This is fresh off the writing stove, so please overlook any errors! 
> 
> 『相合傘』  
> — aiai-gasa.

To be in love is to be in pain.

Or so, Yuta believes.

//

Taeyong sniffles by the umbrella stand. the tips of his fingers, ears, and nose flush red despite the number of layers he seems to be wearing. He adjusts his bright red scarf and nuzzles into it. How soft.

People rush past him in a daze. 

The deluge has given way to pleasant drizzle after hours of waiting. Who knows when they might get caught in heavy rain? 

It is best to take a chance now than wait for the rain to let up.

Taeyong turns his head left and right, almost as if he were waiting for a familiar face to show up.

Yuta stands at the staircase, with gloved hands clenching tight onto the leather strap of his bag. He hides in plain sight.

A co-worker pats his arm as he walks past.

"Are you waiting for someone?" Mark asks, his smile warm.

 _I am._ Yuta swallows. 

"Not really, are you going home?"

"Yeah, too many papers to check. I'll see you tomorrow!" He waves and walks away.

Mark stops by the umbrella stand and greets Taeyong. Their voices only carry as hushed murmurs to where Yuta stands and he turns around to climb the staircase, to head towards the staff room before he is seen when Mark calls out again.

"Hyung! Do you have an extra umbrella?" 

Yuta looks over his shoulder. The thick tweed of his coat brushes against his chin.

"Ah, no. Just one." 

"I see." Mark smiles again—too bright, too sharp for Yuta's eyes—and asks Taeyong, "Should I walk you home then?"

Mark picks his umbrella and offers it but Taeyong flails his hands in an attempt to refuse.

"My station is in the opposite direction," he says. His voice comes out small and slightly hoarse. Something pricks Yuta's chest.

"It's okay, hyung, you're not well—"

"I'll walk him," Yuta declares, finality clipping his tone, "we live in the same direction."

Taeyong swivels on his heels to look at him with wide eyes. Yuta watches his face break into a grin.

He steps closer then. He has his bag and phone. He had no work in the staff room anyway. Tap. Tap. Tap. This Taeyong—soft and sweet—isn't meant for his eyes.

And yet, he steps so close he's only a foot away from crashing into Taeyong's shivering body.

"I'll leave him to you then! Send me a text when you reach home—" Mark's umbrella opens with a loud click, then a whoosh, "—both of you!"

He leaves with a chorus of _good afternoons_ from the last of the archery club students crowding the porch.

//

Life really can be rose-coloured. 

The only prerequisite is: Lee Taeyong.

//

It's not just raindrops thundering against the canopy, even when they're sparse and falling through layers of leaves—Yuta's breath sounds like gushing streams of wind to his ears.

Next to him, Taeyong sniffles again. Yuta breathes out through his mouth and his glasses fog up.

If Taeyong's hands weren't buried deep into his coat pockets, Yuta would have held them gently.

He would have interlaced their fingers—not like they sometimes do in the buzzing staff room or at Doyoung's apartment during movie nights—but with the grace of words he can't bring himself to confess.

Hair falls over Taeyong's eyes as he bows his head to rub his nose against the scarf again.

He looks so cute. So beautiful; he looks lovely, painted against the backdrop of a city too busy to appreciate his presence.

A car speeds past, splashing water into the pavement, luckily far enough that it doesn't dirty either of them. It stops at a red light. More cars come to a halt and the street fills with noise. 

The moment breaks and Yuta is pulled back to reality unwillingly.

"So," Yuta starts, tearing his gaze away to stare at the glimmering stone beneath his feet, "why did you come to work today?"

"I didn't feel sick in the morning." 

"You're lying."

"..." 

Taeyong giggles then, a thick sound bubbling with both cheer and sick.

"I thought I'll be fine." 

_Ever the hard worker,_ Yuta chides mentally, _why don't you look after yourself?_

But Taeyong has someone to look after him. He sucks in a sharp breath.

"How did Doyoung let you get out of bed?" Yuta's tongue prickles as he speaks.

"He's away for a company thing. I didn't tell him."

"He couldn't figure? Don't you guys video call whenever he's away?"

Taeyong's expression darkens. "He didn't call today," he admits with a choked voice. He breaks into a loud cough then, one hand fisting over his chest.

Yuta stops to pat him on the back.

The rain starts to fall harder. He holds the umbrella close over Taeyong's body and waits for him to stand straight again. 

He doesn't care if his own sleeve gets wet.

//

Yuta stops by the hallway windows often.

The sunshine reminds him of Taeyong's warmth.

//

Taeyong sneezes into his handkerchief—a light sound, a wrinkled nose, an annoyed expression—and Yuta has to tamp down the desire to let go of the umbrella and hug him tight.

"Did you fight?" Is what he asks instead.

"With whom?" Taeyong looks away. Yuta follows his stare and looks at a bus that rattles by, wondering if any of his students are on their way home in it. He wishes they would reach home without getting drenched.

"Doyoung." 

"No... Not really. We just disagreed on something." 

Yuta remembers warmer days, filled with the scent of freshly mowed lawns and new, rubber, garden hoses, when they would exchange the same dialogue.

Did you fight again?

You know how it is with us. 

You're like Tom and Jerry. 

It's what makes our relationship funny, I think. 

You're happy, though, aren't you? 

What makes you think otherwise?

...Nothing.

It's been six years since, and while Yuta still can't find any reason to ask Taeyong to leave Doyoung—maybe he has grown a soft spot for Doyoung, who knows—he wishes with all his heart that he would find just _one_ reason.

Just one reason to tell Taeyong, _I will take care of you. I will hold your hand._

He remembers black skies with golden fireworks during spring break. He remembers the way Taeyong would sit there with a frown, missing his overly responsible boyfriend, and he remembers the way his sadness looked like the worst thing in this world.

Then, his stomach fills with the heaviest of boulders—so heavy even the strongest person couldn't lift them—because he remembers how there came a moment that night when he would have touched Taeyong's lips with his own, had it not been for Doyoung showing up out of the blue.

Yuta still wants it.

He wants to stop the tremble of Taeyong's pale lips with his own.

But they aren't his to have. Somewhere inside him, in a cage of bones, his feelings lie waiting for the sleep fairy to visit them. It's been long. It's about time.

It's better if his feelings lie dormant than if they choose to tear through his flesh and escape into a world that isn't prepared to deal with the chaos.

"You'll be fine," Yuta says and then smirks. 

His heart beats faster, harder, thicker. He isn't lying, can't bring himself to plant seeds of doubt in Taeyong's lively world, but he wants to.

Is he that slight of a man? That he wants to resort to hurting the one he loves?

Taeyong hums in response.

They're still fifteen minutes away from the main gates of Taeyong's apartment building and the corridors that lead to the doors are open. By now, the marble floors must be wet and chilled.

Yuta thanks the heavens that he chose to wear gloves today.

He grimaces when he realises they were gifted to him by Taeyong.

Everything in the world circles back to him.

Everything.

Yuta hates it and loves it simultaneously. It's as if he were a musical instrument.

He hurts so he can bring happiness to another. 

And somewhere along the way, he has gotten so used to the pain that it barely registers.

Taeyong looks at him questioningly.

"Hold this for a second." Yuta hands him the umbrella. Taeyong notices his damp coat sleeve and opens his mouth, presumably to scold him, but Yuta shushes him.

He slips off his gloves and bites his tongue when the cold bites his skin.

"Wear them." 

"I can't."

"You idiot, have you seen yourself?"

Taeyong coughs weakly. "You still have a long way to walk, and who would look after you if you fell sick?"

_I hope you would._

"I'll call Mark." Yuta grins deviously. "He owes me one."

Taeyong hands the umbrella back to him and Yuta is grateful it is somewhat warm. Is that what being held does? Turn frigid things bearable?

He flexes his fingers and taps his nails against the material, deliberately looking away as Taeyong huffs and murmurs under his breath while wearing the gloves.

It's his body heat.

His body heat and his gloves are keeping Taeyong warm. 

So what if they can't hold hands—it still stings—he can help keep him warm.

"Do you have medicine at home?" Yuta wishes he would say, _No, I don't._ The nearest pharmacy is ten minutes away.

Anything to spend a little longer with Taeyong under an umbrella—

It is then that his situation strikes him with clarity. 

He is sharing an umbrella with someone he loves.

Could it be... an aiai-gasa?

//

A younger Yuta spent his evenings daydreaming.

Now, he doesn't dream even while he sleeps.

//

If Yuta were to consider convention, this wouldn't be an aiai-gasa—an umbrella shared by two people. 

He wonders why people started thinking of love when it's barely two shoulders touching as they take shelter. 

Is it because when one hears the word ai, they only think of love?

He is no high schooler. Yet, he teaches them, and seeing names scribbled onto the blackboard in gritty chalk with a heart enclosing them is a regular sight.

He used to do that.

In the security of his notebook in university. He colours with embarrassment.

The touch of notepad paper hovers over his fingertips like a ghost. He can almost envision drying ink: Yuta and Taeyong, one name on each side of an umbrella shaft. 

A single, tiny heart floats over the ferrule.

Almost.

These pages often found themselves folded into aeroplanes with their final destination set as his wastebasket.

It should count.

This should count as an aiai-gasa, even if they're both men, even if they have been friends longer than Yuta has been an adult.

He still does love Taeyong.

It counts.

His ribs splay out like the ribs of his umbrella with the sudden rush of blood to his heart.

This moment belongs to Yuta and his childish fantasies.

He squeezes the handle tight.

Courage gathers at the tip of his tongue and his throat shakes as if he had the same cold Taeyong does. 

"Taeyong."

"Hm?"

"If you didn't meet Doyoung... do you think we would have ended up together?"

//

They say sharing things increases love.

But Yuta doesn't want to share Taeyong and that must be why he doesn't love him back.

//

The answer to both his questions is a hesitant, _Yes, I think so, haha._

Taeyong has medicine at home which makes Yuta's hope frizzle.

Taeyong thinks they would have gotten together if Doyoung wasn't in the picture. Yuta decidedly looks at his winter boots and focuses on the scent of wet asphalt mingling with shrubbery.

"It's what people would have expected anyway," Taeyong says in a flat voice with an earnest face, "you know how people like to push for close friends to get together if their orientation is like that... like the girls in class." 

He giggles. Yuta's tongue sticks to the roof of mouth, tight. The prickly sensation from before returns. 

He snorts, as best as he can manage, and hopes his expression doesn't give him away.

"And then? You think we would have lasted?" He jests. He wiggles his eyebrows—an extremely difficult task when his knees want to buckle and hit the ground—and Taeyong punches his arm.

"We'd break up in two days and go back to being best friends." There's a change in his tone, in his inflexion, and it doesn't go unnoticed by Yuta. 

He'd always notice, after all.

"We're best friends... Aren't we?"

Taeyong coughs again and pulls out his handkerchief with fumbling hands but his voice shakes for a different reason.

It stabs Yuta.

Has he not been a good enough friend? Why would Taeyong doubt him? Does he know? He knows, doesn't he? He knows, _he knows—_

"You've been so distant lately. Even Doyoung asked why you won't come over." 

Ah. Ah, so it's like that.

He's the best friend a couple feels responsible for. He's _that_ one.

Yuta doesn't know if it makes him happy that Taeyong cares so much or if he should dig a grave.

"I haven't been feeling well." It's not untrue. "I'm sorry if it felt that way."

"No, no, I just... I got worried. You know you can talk to me about—"

"Anything, yeah. Rest your throat. What will the students do if you can't speak?"

_What will I do if I can't hear your voice?_

"Taeyong, you know I love you, right?"

Taeyong's hand—in his glove, warmed and welcome—settles over his. He had forgotten how numb he felt.

"I love you too."

Yuta wants to snap himself in half.

"I know."

He wishes lightning would strike him.

If Yuta's head were a garden, it would be infested by roses. Bright red roses, with thorns the size of his pinky digging into the ground—into him—and feeding on his time. 

Taeyong always reminds him of roses.

//

There are abrupt disappointments.

And then there are those, the ones that take years as they root in your body.

//

Everything is easy with Taeyong.

Friendship. Education. Employment. Love. Talking. Even rejection.

He makes it so easy. Yuta wants to beg Taeyong to teach him how he manages to manoeuvre through sticky lanes as if he were on roller skates.

He probably wouldn't be able to teach, since it's an intrinsic value of his, to ensure all hearts around him are firm and secure.

Yuta doesn't know if it's selflessness or a superior form of self-defence. He doesn't want to know either.

He is a lovesick fool anyway.

They'd break up in two days. Yeah, right.

If it were in his power to appeal for his fate to be rethreaded at Kamuhakari, he would give up anything else the gods would ask of him.

There's nothing he can do though. 

He accepts his rejection—as he had a long time ago when he understood Taeyong looks at Doyoung with glittering eyes—and sighs.

"Don't show up to school tomorrow." 

"If I feel better, I will."

"No, you won't. I'll let the principal know, and we will substitute your classes, don't worry."

"Exams are near."

"So what? You can take a day off. Think about the students. They'll get self-study."

It stops raining. It's like magic. The sky clears up within minutes and the traffic starts congesting again.

Before he knows it, Yuta doesn't need to hold up the umbrella anymore.

So he doesn't.

He closes it at arm's length but still gets sprinkled by stray water droplets.

It's just another day for him now.

"I'll be fine on my own," Taeyong squeezes his shoulder with as much strength as he can muster.

"Sure?"

"Sure. I'll see you tomorrow."

Yuta holds back a smile.

"No, you won't."

Taeyong walks away, his shoulders relaxed and hands clasped behind his back.

"I will."

And maybe he will. Maybe, the sadness will crawl under his blankets later tonight to wipe away Yuta's tears, and it will leave in the morning.

Taeyong disappears behind the apartment building gate and he leaves Yuta behind, as he always does.

Yuta yearns to see him for even a minute longer.

But Taeyong isn't his to see. Not in the way he wants it.

His vision blurs as wet eyelashes streak his glasses with tears.

So much for trying to take everything in stride. For now, he takes in a shuddering breath and allows the conversation to settle in his gut, where it will ache for years to come.

He heads home.

When he does, he texts Mark that he has reached.

He would say he has reached safely, but then he would be lying, won't he?

//

Taeyong doesn't show up to school the next day even though he feels better.

Yuta is glad that for once, that idiot listened.

—end—

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Lower your Shoulders and Unclench your Jaw <3 Stay hydrated <3 Thank you for reading, if you've reached here do consider leaving a kudos because hits don't indicate how many people read the fic!


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